


Don't Blame Yourself

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [26]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Emotional Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Other, Post Character Death, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4477511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There isn’t a body, and for a second Sam can hope—hope that Spike, by some miracle, escaped; hope that he’s alright and just bruised to hell from being thrown from the mine. But the hope faded, like a candle extinguished under a gallon of water, as the blonde sniper spotted the blood. <br/>It’s everywhere, smeared across the pavement and grass like a child’s finger-paints. Still bright red, it sits on all available surfaces as a grave marker—because no one can lose that much blood and be okay. </p>
<p>Sequel to "This Can't Be Happening To Me"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Blame Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> *eyes comment section hungrily*   
> Enjoy! :)
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint nor the characters. I do not make a profit from my writing. However, it's still my writing so please don't repost anywhere. Thanks!

Silence, just like the color spectrum, isn’t simply one shade that never falters in saturation or hue; it’s a broad range of levels that is specific to each and every person. To some, it’s static and to others, it’s a flat ocean during the witching hours.

To Sam and Ed, it’s a wobbling ringing; it’s Spike’s last words mixed into the sharp noises of the explosion—devastating their eardrums.

No one speaks, no one even sobs, and the sirens of the police vehicles have been switched off—they died with a slow whirr, sputtering away into nothingness.

There isn’t a body, and for a second Sam can hope—hope that Spike, by some miracle, escaped; hope that he’s alright and just bruised to hell from being thrown from the mine. But the hope faded, like a candle extinguished under a gallon of water, as the blonde sniper spotted the blood.

It’s everywhere, smeared across the pavement and grass like a child’s finger-paints. Still bright red, it sits on all available surfaces as a grave marker—because no one can lose that much blood and be okay.

Then Sam saw the flesh—charred and lumped unrecognizably, limbs torn from the trunk of his body—and spun around as he dry heaved. He didn’t want to breathe because now his brain is matching the scent with a name, and a name with an event, and an event with a truth.

_He’s gone._

Ed’s mind was still catching up, gears rusting with blood, because where Spike had been standing there is now just torn-away skin and showing bones. The bomb tech’s face is too burned to identify, but they all knew. Even without the glittering brown eyes, and pouty lips, they all knew it’s the remains of their fallen team member.

When the older sniper’s thoughts finally click into place, the bald man collapsed onto the ground—mouth hanging open like he wanted to say something, but no sound came out.

“No,” Ed whispered, “He—…. _No…._ I told him not to move… Why—? Why didn’t he…”

“It’s not your fault,” Sam told him in a strained voice that tore at his vocal cords like they weren’t frayed enough already, and he collapses in front of his older lover like a puppet released from its strings. Grabbing the other sniper’s face in his hands, Sam didn’t try to stop the tears that were blurring his vision. Even with his limited sight, eyes burning and face wet, he could see Ed’s gaze—blank, confused, _grief-stricken_.

“Don’t look over there, Ed,” Sam begged, not allowing the man’s head to swivel so he could see around him—because if the older sniper fell apart any more than he already had, then Sam was going to slip out of his semi-calm, denial-induced haze, “Look at _me,_ not over there.”

Then it hit him—that this was the same thing Greg had done with Spike at Lou’s demise—and the little façade he’d created crumbled at his feet like a crumbling wall.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Sam bit out, but Ed was still bleary-eyed and not responding, “We need to leave… so they can… so they can—,”

“ _I know_ ,” the older man snarled, suddenly coming alive even though he still looked dead, “I—,”

“We… We have to go tell Greg,” Sam muttered quietly, not bothering to wipe away the tears that were glistening on his flesh, “We h… we have to…” He repeated, and Ed wanted to swear as the shock took ahold of the blonde sniper.

The older man pushed his own pain aside, ripping out his earpiece because he didn’t want to hear the tearful, airy apologies of the team, and tried to get his legs underneath him. They wobbled under the effort of standing upright, but his knees didn’t buckle and send him back to the pavement.

“Let’s go, Sam,” Ed whispered, keeping the devastated area out of his line of sight—because he had to be strong for Braddock, and he couldn’t do that if his mind shut down again—and pulled his younger lover to his feet.

“We have to… we have—,”

“I know, Sam,” Ed’s voice cracked, “ _I know_.” He couldn’t cry, not now. He would cry later—sob, when there was no one that needed him as a pillar.

“You told… you told him to stand still…. Why… why didn’t he listen?” Sam asked, voice distorted by the tears still streaming down his face and the shock manipulating his tongue.

Ed knew, but he didn’t want to say.

_“…don’t blame yourself… alright?_

_There was nothing you could have done…._

_I love you, and **I’m so sorry**.”_

* * *

 

 

No one can prepare for this; and even Sam and Ed—who have lost lives before, have lost loved ones and every other type of person—stand ramrod straight and still. Greg’s sitting up in the hospital bed, the gauze around his middle hidden by the thin hospital gown, still drowsy from the medication.

“Where’s Spike?” The negotiator asked with a dopy smile, but it slipped off when neither of his lovers answered—and his face contorted into terror, eyes too wide for his skull and all the color that he’d gained back from the blood loss slipped away from his skin. He repeated the question, frantically and brokenly, but it simply received the same silent as Ed’s sharp blue eyes misted over with tears and Sam’s gaze turned skyward as he tried to keep the tears from sliding down his cheeks.

“He—,” Ed started, but Greg cut him off with an angry shout.

“He said he was fine, he called and said _he was okay_! Spike wouldn’t lie to me, so tell _me where the hell he is_!”

“He lied,” Sam cut off the last ring of his older lover’s sentence, “He was standing on the mine when he called you. God, Greg…” The younger sniper fisted his hands in his hair, like the physical pain would relieve the mental and emotional, “we _watched_ him step off the damn thing.”

“I want to see him,” Greg whispered, starting to get up from the hospital bed—but Ed pushed him back down, squeezing his eyes shut and letting the tears slid past his eyelashes.

“There was nothing left.”

There was nothing to talk about, after that.

 

* * *

 

It’s a few hours later, the night creeping up on them even though none of the men plan to sleep, when an officer knocks on the door of Greg’s hospital room—face pained but still making eye contact despite the despair and anger and distraught and overwhelmed expressions.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” The officer told them lightly, her hands shaking a bit as she extended her arm robotically and unclenched her fist. Two pieces of metal strung on a chain glint under the artificial lights. “These were found near Mr. Scarla—… these were at the scene.” She corrects, taking a deep breath and focusing on making sure her voice is steady. She handed them off, whispered another apology, and slipped from the room like a ghost.

Sam’s fingers are numb as he takes his dog-tags, and his legs shook under him as he spotted flecks of copper-red on the heavy chain and metal plates. The metal was icy in his grasp, and it hurt as he clenched his fingers around the unforgiving edges. Shoving them into his pocket, because he can’t look at them anymore—will never be able to look at them again—Sam excused himself and padded softly into the bathroom—locking the door behind him.

Spike had been wearing his dog tags.

He returned from the small room with red eyes and aggravated skin from where he’d scrubbed the tears away—breath hitch-y and nearly to the state of hyperventilating.

No one knows what to say—nothing to comfort, nothing to soothe, nothing to make anything okay—, so they just stay voiceless. Spike’s words filled the quiet, the tone and tempo of his speech memorized.

 

_“…don’t blame yourself… alright?_

_There was nothing you could have done…._

_I love you, and **I’m so sorry**.”_

 

 

 

 


End file.
